No More Masks
by RachyBaby09
Summary: "Our two heartbeats press together in symphony. We are one. I find myself falling in love with Christine Daae, all over again." ONESHOT from Erik's point of view. Short, sweet, & a bit sad.


_(a/n: Here's a short oneshot from Erik's point of view…after "Music of the Night," when he takes Christine to see the mannequin. It's mostly 2004 movie-verse, but a couple lines were inspired by Leroux, the 1990 TV mini series and 1989 horror version. I really do appreciate your reviews!)_

* * *

_No More Masks_

_"A love of the most exquisite kind…"_

I draw back the Persian drape and my Angel and I seem to share a soft, knowing smile. She peers up at me, almost expectantly, as her lush fan of eyelashes blanket her beautiful, cinnamon gaze. I set two of my gloved fingertips beneath the arch of her chin, pushing up with a gentle touch. I can see into her eyes, now; her ebony lashes no longer curtain the windows to her soul. Her soul is a beautiful thing; the angels weep.

But in that moment, her lips part with an emotion I cannot seem to understand. Her gaze searches the depth of my eyes…searching…searching. She glances away—burned by the intense desire within my own gaze. It has been unmasked. She knows now—her Angel of Music desires her with an unearthly, fiery passion. Her Angel of Music loves her—as a man loves his wife. Her mind wanders to simpler times.

Oh, Little Lotte, let her mind wander…

* * *

So long ago, it seems so long ago… Our lessons were a time of beautiful, bare simplicity…I was her Angel of Music; my purpose on earth was to give her song wings and her voice soul. I would whisper, "Christine, my Angel, you are almost ready…Paris will love you."

She would smile at her Angel of Music's praise and promise, peering up at the Heavens with gratitude and tears tumbling down her cheeks. Such a beautiful sight: a weeping Angel.

Is it a sin to think a crying Angel is beautiful?

"Christine…"—a small and giddy smile would grace her lips—"Christine, the voice of Heaven…he loves you."

* * *

My heart swells as she looks at me now. She has lost faith. There is no Angel of Music. There never was. There is no genius, ghost, nor phantom. There is only Erik! Erik, Erik, Erik! This revelation shatters her soul. I see her sadness, disappoint and resentment. She cannot fool me. I know her so well.

Her lovely smile is a mask; she has no reason to smile. Oh, Christine…we are not so different, you and I! We live in shadow, deceived by our warped visions of the world. We sing to keep the darkness away. We are haunted. We both hide behind masks. Can we never be complete in ourselves? No more masks!

Oh, Christine—you must love me, for me!

* * *

The two Christines silently stare at each other—both unmoving, both pale beauties, both lifeless. Christine Daae and her mannequin are both my creation. One carved from flesh, the other from ivory. My Christine Daae spirals to the floor, spooked by her ornate companion. She knows I wish to wed her. No more masks. I catch her in my arms and cradle her to the rhythm of my chest.

A tender slice of Heaven—in my arms! Imagine! I lay her across the satin sanctuary. She belongs here—in Erik's bed! My bed! Mine! My swan bed is elegant and soft, befitting to her fragile beauty.

Oh, Christine…

I stroke her chin tentatively, gently—so careful not to wake her. But her lashes blink open! She gasps…her eyes stare up! I see her search the porcelain of my mask for answers. Who am I? Why would I deceive her so? But the porcelain is vacant and emotionless. The porcelain is inhuman. She turns away with glassy eyes, as empty and helpless as before.

She is so brave!—She chances a last look at her false prophet. Her eyes plead to know the truth: Who is this strange angel? Who was the shape in the shadows? Who is the man who's fallen head over heels for an angel? Whose is the face in the mask?

I sigh with half a heart. "It is true. I am no Angel of Music, Christine. I am only Erik."

She smiles and recites my name beneath her breath. She does not hate her Erik!

Oh, Christine…

Her tiny fingers tickle my chin—not in curiosity or wonderment. Her caress is intimate. It is affectionate. It is beautiful.

I find myself falling in love with Christine Daae, all over again.

I lean into her hand, my eyes swollen—threatening to rain. Her words are nectar to my ears, and a divine relief to my soul: "Oh, my Erik. You can cry."

Oh, sweet, beautiful, Christine…

Her forgiveness releases me. I weep into the creamy palm of her hand.

"Poor, Erik. Poor, unhappy, Erik." She sniffles…she cries…we cry, together! The angel, also, cries! Our tears mingle.

Tears blanket her cheeks, disappearing into the crevice of her parted lips. Lips! My Christine's lips are so beautiful…I ache for her kisses.

Her velvet lips press against mine. Mine, mine! Erik's! I sigh into her mouth, shuddering…wondering if I have slept and will too soon awake. She smiles against my lips. She reads my eyes, and answers my frightened thoughts: "You are not dreaming. Not any longer. I am here, with you…beside you…my sweet Erik. Forever and a day!"

I sweep her into my arms with an inner strength I hadn't known to exist until this moment. I ache to be a man for her. I ache to be deserving of her beauty.

Oh, Christine…forever and a day!

She giggles—oh, what a heavenly sound! Our two heartbeats press together in symphony. We are one.

"Oh, Christine…you have made me so proud…you are the face of my song." She echoes that haunting word: "Face…"

Her trembling, little hand rises to my mask; I pull back at once—like an abused mongrel who's only known beatings.

"Oh, Erik. You think I will not love you for your face?" She sets her opposite hand across my racing heart. "Erik…you are so nervous…so frightened…poor, unhappy Erik…what kind of life have you known?"

For the first time in forty years, I cannot find my voice. And, without the audacity of my voice, I am powerless. I am nothing.

I cannot answer her. I have no intention of tainting how Christine sees the world. I will not steal away her innocence. There is no reason for her to be burdened with such horrific truths. My heart screams, 'Christine, you must stay here, with me, always! The world is unworthy of you!' My mind refutes, 'I am unworthy of you, Christine Daae.'

She wants to know why I hide behind a white mask:

"I am not beautiful, Christine."

She sniffles. Chocolate curls bounce about as she shakes her head. "I refuse to believe such a thing about my Erik. I have seen your soul. I know your heart. Why not let me know your face, too? I know it can be looked upon by someone who loves you. I love you—for you!" She smiles and grins. "No more masks, Erik!"

My eyes fall shut. For the first time in forty years, I find myself praying. I whisper into the softness of her hair… "No more masks."

I wait in paralyzed suspense as her fingers coil beneath the porcelain. She tears away my disguise…slowly, slowly…so painfully slow…

I can only wait. I wait as she removes my final mask. I hear the unhappy cries of my mother…the leather whip upon the tortured flesh of my back…laughter and gawking…circus music—

I hear Christine's scream! Her beautiful eyes glaze over! She stares up…up at Erik! She knows the face of the voice. The warmth of her body falls cold. She is limp. She stares forward, seeing nothing.

But, no! Now, she will forever see the hideousness of Erik's face.

I cry out. I listen to the slowing melody of her heart. Our chests are still pressed together—but only mine beats! No. My soul shatters into ashes. I mourn my tragic loss.

Erik's face has killed my Angel.

* * *

"NO, CHRISTINE, NO!"

I wake with a strangled cry, voice echoing my underworld. Perspiration rains from my damp hairline. Perspiration pools into the morbid trenches of my back.

Christine is staring at me! The stare is unfeeling, cold as death.

I can finally catch my breath. It was a nightmare. It is the mannequin who stares at poor, unhappy Erik.

My Christine Daae has not lost her faith. My Christine Daae still believes in angels.

I rise from the swan bed, still shaking from the horror of my nightmare. It had been a beautiful dream…until Christine knew the face of the Voice. I rake an unsteady hand through my glossy, raven hair.

I toss my cape over the expanse of my shoulders in a rushed motion. I press my mask to my curse. My face: my birthmark, my deathmark.

But there's no time for brooding. I must make haste, or I shall be late for Christine's debut in 'Hannibal.' She has made me so proud.

Tonight, we shall astonish all Paris.

Tonight, the world will hear Christine Daae sing.

Tonight, the world will love her.

Tonight, my Opera House inherits a new patron…the Vicomte de Chagny.

Tonight, I will seduce her through the mirror.

Tonight, Christine will see why I hide in shadow.

Tonight, her Angel will fall.

It must be tonight if ever.

No more masks.


End file.
